


What to do While Waiting: Void of Darkness

by HyenaKonrad



Series: Wait to do While Waiting: A Johnlock Tale [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Neglect, Cutting, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:31:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HyenaKonrad/pseuds/HyenaKonrad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has finally received a case after many weeks of inactivity, but is faced with a problem that could prevent him from working at top performance, or at all; his depression and the ghosts of his past neglect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What to do While Waiting: Void of Darkness

Sometimes even the cases weren’t enough. Sometimes the black moods were so deep and so dark that it consumed Sherlock’s very being, and when he finally received a new case from Lestrade, he couldn’t pull himself together to solve it. It was in these times that John knew that something truly was wrong with Sherlock. It extended beyond his inability to relate on a human level with people. It extended beyond his sociopathic tendencies. There was a greater problem here that wasn’t being addressed, and it would be the ruin of the great detective if he didn’t acknowledge this problem soon.

The crime scene was gruesome. There was a tape recorder sitting on the table that had been set to play a cassette tape at a specific time. The victim was harnessed to a contraption, each limb chained to a set of gears and pullies. All were tightly bound, save one hand that had been loosely bound in a cuff with razors set on the inner cuff that would have cut him when he pulled out his arm. He was given a chance at freedom, but he had to pull out his hand, and plunge it into a nearby jar of some substance, presumably some sort of alcohol or acid, to retrieve the key. Attempts were made guessing from the blood content in the jar, but the victim couldn’t retrieve the key in time. At the end of his allotted time, his limbs were ripped from his torso, and he was left to bleed out and die. John has seen many horrors in war, but this…

“Who would DO something so…”

So animalistic, so cruel. This was almost—no, WAS—an inhuman thing to do. John had to close his eyes, feeling his vision swim momentarily. Get yourself together… He could do this. After a moment to steel himself, John faced the crime scene once more. He then turned around to watch as Sherlock entered the room. Normally the detective would be whirling about the crime scene, observing, deductions tumbling from those lips in rapid fire, faster than John could usually heat him or keep up with what was going on, let alone process what any of the information meant. But today…Sherlock’s eyes rolled lazily over the scene, a dull fog in them. His movements were slow and staggered, and he stood hunched, as if his shoulders were bearing a great weight. John was immensely concerned. Lestrade seemed to catch on to this peculiar behavior as well, shifting uneasily on the spot.

“Well Sherlock?”

He gestured towards the victim, waiting for the man to work his magic, as he always did without fail, but nothing came. Sherlock found himself focusing only on one thing, and that was how terribly dark his vision seemed to be. The room was dim, and the darkness closed in on him. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. His mind was caged. Locked. He was brain locked. Sherlock brought an unsteady hand to his head and tugged at his hair, teeth digging into his lip as he tried to rouse his brain from its involuntary shutdown. To no avail. Oh how cruel this was. The waiting was over and he couldn’t rise from the pit. He couldn’t rise to the challenge presented before him and do the only thing that mattered in the world. The only thing he was good for. If Sherlock couldn’t even do THIS…

John was watching this brilliant man just fall apart in front of him. Sherlock stood at the doorway, hands tangled in his hair as he trembled with eyes shut. He wanted to run. Where? Home. Bed. Cover. He wanted the cover of darkness and he wanted to sink. He wanted to sink to the floor. His body was lead. It was too heavy to hold up. He couldn’t hold…

“Sherlock?”

John stepped forward, placing a gentle yet firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The man withdrew, snarling under his breath. No. Don’t touch me. Not here not in front of prying eyes. No sentiment. He didn’t do sentiment and kindness. No he didn’t want John to care. He didn’t want this. 

“That’s it. Lestrade, I’m sorry but Sherlock’s not well. Maybe you can uh…”

“I’ll sort out what I can here. Gather as much evidence as I can, see where my leads get me…you just uh…sort him out, alright?”

John gave a quick nod before he took Sherlock by the elbow, leading the man out of the room, and eventually back to the street to hail a cab after much struggle. Sherlock wasn’t being very agreeable. Understandably he didn’t want to leave, but he had to. He was accomplishing nothing by standing at the crime scene like nothing but a useless wall. John helped Sherlock into the cab once they could get one to stop, and he sat close beside him, watching as the detective tried to curl up in the seat. He was mumbling to himself, unintelligible words that no doubt were words of self-loathing and disgust. How? How could he let the opportunity for a case slip through his fingers? How could he LEAVE like that? But winning the war over his mind more were the thoughts of exhaustion. Were the pleads for sleep. Sleep. He would get back to the flat and close his eyes, and let himself fall under the control of the darkness. He couldn’t win it out. He just couldn’t keep fighting.

It was a quick trip back to 221B, and once there, John had to practically drag Sherlock up all the necessary flights of stairs, and was too exhausted to get him to the bedroom by the time he’d finally gotten him into the flat. So instead he brought Sherlock to the couch to collapse upon, and he did so instantly with a thud. He didn’t remove his coat or scarf, which he only managed to put on due to mechanical habit every time he left the flat.

“Sherlock, aren’t you going to…you really should…”

Brick wall. Sherlock wasn’t listening. He’d already completely shut down and shut the world away. Worthless. Pathetic. Get over it. FREAK. Sherlock hid his head in his arms, his breathing slow and sluggish, much like his mind. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t feel his body, he couldn’t function. Shut down. Down, down…dark. It was dark. He was gone. Gone…

…

…

Sherlock?

A voice? Who’s voice?

Sherlock?

It was John. Ever concerned John. John the ever vigilant. But where was he? Where was John? He didn’t even know where he was himself. Where…

SHERLOCK!

Sherlock stirred on the couch, his body stiff. Terribly stiff. Disuse. He’d passed out. How long was he out? Must have been long from the touch of hysteric concern in John’s voice and with how stiff his muscles were from laying in the same position for so long. Sherlock’s lids fluttered before he shut them tightly, seeing the TV static. The haze. The fog. John had noticed the subtle movement, and that was enough for him to know that Sherlock, though he wasn’t ok, he was still with the world, and that would have to be enough.

“Oh thank god…Sherlock…”

Where did he go from here? Depression. That’s what this was. Depression. Deep rooted. Not new. Old wounds. Old wounds of the mind that have clawed and clawed until there was nothing left. Heart and soul carved out. Chest carved hollow. Hollow. Sherlock was hollow from all of the hurt, and all of the pain, and all of the sadness he’s endured in his life that’s felt so LONG. And yet he was not old. In the prospect of life, Sherlock was fairly young. And yet he felt so old and like he’s lived far too long already. Far too long. How did people live this long without losing their sanity? Losing themselves? Sherlock had lost himself a long time ago. He had given up long ago on ever being saved.

But here was John, trying to save him. Again the fire was lit to bring warmth to the sitting room, and John brewed a soothing cup of tea that was set on the table nearby, and the aroma roused Sherlock from his stupor, senses running overdrive. He cracked his eyes open to be met with the face of one John Watson looming over him, his face carved with lines of worry. He suddenly looked so old and so worn. When did he become so old? When did his hair fade to such a dull blonde? Sherlock reached out and touched that tired face, dull eyes flicking from feature to feature as his fingers traced those lines.

“You’ll worry yourself ill.”

“Well you’re going to drive yourself into a hospital with this behavior…Sherlock I…there’s only so much I can do and if I can’t DO anything…well then I’ll have to—“

Sherlock’s hand shot out and gripped John’s wrist tightly, with more strength than seemed possible of the weak man lying before him. Such a look of despair and RAGE was contorting his face, and as he slowly sat up, John was almost afraid of the darkness he was seeing in Sherlock now.

“If you say you’re going to have to call the authorities on me…that you’re going to have me hauled away by the men in the white coats…then you best hold your tongue or BITE IT OFF!”

“Sherlock, I won’t have any other OPTIONS!”

“So my best option is to be hauled away to a facility to be NEGLECTED! ABUSED! TREATED LIKE AN ANIMAL?! Oh you mean well. YOU’RE DIFFERENT THAN THE REST!”

John winced, reeling back against the hand that was holding onto him tightly. His hand was going numb Sherlock was holding onto him so tightly. But he took this as a sign. A sign that Sherlock was afraid. A sign that Sherlock was…desperate. He didn’t want to be taken away, and honestly John didn’t want to send him away. But he felt deflated and at a loss of what to do to help this man in his suffering. He needed a moment. He needed to recollect his thoughts. Deep breaths.

“You are NOT going to be treated like—“

“Oh and how would you know? Have YOU had a lovely stay in one of those FOUL places? Well I have…”

Wait…oh. That would make so much sense. His over-reaction. John had put it up to Sherlock’s frayed state of mind, but he hadn’t considered that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock has been committed before…

“I was 15. Problematic child my mother would say. Didn’t get on well with my peers and dear Mycroft wasn’t in line for any Brother of the Year awards. And father…oh he thought he was doing some good pushing me to be the most brilliant mind London had seen. He pushed my academics and extra-curriculars, but didn’t necessarily push social interaction. Not that anyone would want to be friends with ‘The Human Computer’. Freak. Machine. All names I’ve been called before. Over and over. Do you know how it feels to be burdened with so much disgust, and so much expectation? I never saw my father’s goal. If the world despised me so what was the point of pushing me to be one of the best and brightest? What would it prove? What would I succeed in doing by being a brilliant mind that lacked social skills?”

Sherlock released his vice grip hold on John’s wrist, leaning back against the couch. He seemed faded and lost, his memories coming to him in a flash of darkness. There was no happiness there in his nostalgia. Only pain, reaffirming John’s hypothesis from before; Sherlock led a truly sad and difficult life thus far.

“There was just too much. Too much stimulus. Mother’s nagging disapproval of the way I sought so desperately my father’s approval. Mycroft’s taunting. Father’s egging me on without so much as one word of praise. All I wanted…was to be ACKNOWLEDGED, if only for a moment, for the brilliant things I was doing. I was accomplishing feats of scientific intellect that scientists with DECADES of experience had never hoped of accomplishing. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t ANYTHING. My accomplishments weren’t achieving me anything in life…had no worth…and it was then that I started to see that it’s very possible that there are people brought into this world that don’t have purpose. I had no purpose. And if I had no purpose, then why stay? Why take up space? Taking up space didn’t make me any better than the simple minded fools that I so despised and looked down upon…”

Sherlock let his fingers venture to his inner thighs, rubbing them gently. It was a rather…awkward motion and made John’s ears burn and made him squirm on the couch. Was that really…oh.

“I knew where all of the major blood vessels and arteries were located in the human body, and knew which ones would give me assured death. Which vessels would bleed out without hope of repair. I could lay back and feel my life drain away with the blood. It would be so easy, and irreversible.”

Sherlock held his hand up in a mock motion of wielding a blade, staring at the silver glint. John was horrified.

“So easy…but when it came down to the dirty task…seeking death isn’t as easy as one would think. I felt the steel bite into my flesh, and watched the blood blossom forth. I cut…and I cut…but I couldn’t cut deep enough. And John…it HURT! Oh how it hurt. I would like to say I was brave enough to push down a little harder…but I wasn’t. And then…my mother walked in. Saw the damage. There was just so much BLOOD! The rest of it happened so fast. Father was on the phone, the men in white came, and I was taken to…that place…”

Sherlock’s voice was distant and bitter. He was walking in a haunted place, and John wanted nothing more than to grip him and pull him out. Because Sherlock was in so much pain. Pain that he’s hidden for so long that he didn’t know how to cope with it. How has he lasted so long with so much pain?

“They would leave me locked in my room for days on end, nothing but a BUCKET for excrement…no food. They would slide pills through a slot at the bottom of my door. When someone did come to check on me, they strapped me down to my bed. Said they weren’t going to take any chances. I could be a danger to them. Sometimes they’d leave me there in my own filth, cold, ill…”

Sherlock’s glazed eyes turned to John now, and to his astonishment there were tears there. Tears he was certain Sherlock wasn’t even aware had been there.

“John, how could…you treat another human being like that? A CHILD no less? How could you…”

Sherlock was losing grip. He was trembling beside John who was sitting beside him. His face was ashen. He looked positively sick.

“That’s why I decided to put my mind to work on dealing with the dead. The dead can’t mock you. The dead can’t hurt you. I don’t have to deal with people save to get what I need out of them, and then I’ll move on. No sentiment. No dealing with emotions. Solving these cases…it’s concrete. It’s all fact and evidence, and if there isn’t evidence then it isn’t true. It’s…simple. And it gives me purpose. It gives me a reason…”

Is this really what Sherlock had been reduced to? That the only reason to living was to give something to the world, and not for the sake of living itself? There was so much to life. So many people to meet and experiences to be had between point A and point B. And Sherlock was letting all of that pass him by to be nothing but a cold hearted thinker serving the purposes of the world around him. And that was no way to live. 

“Sherlock you know…you shouldn’t have to live to appease everyone else. I mean in fact you really shouldn’t. I mean if you don’t find…I guess personal pleasure…or erm…interest in what you do—“

“Oh don’t get me wrong. The thrill of the chase excites me. Solving the impossible. Having my wits tested beyond measure. It’s the only thing that brings me…”

Delight? Was that it? Sherlock never put an emotion to it. He never put an emotion to anything he…felt? Did he feel? No. Certainly not. Sherlock didn’t do feelings. He felt physical excitement from the adrenaline, nothing else. And adrenaline pumping through your blood was not an emotion. That was a physical response to stimuli.

“I do the work of my own free will John, that’s all you need to know and all that matters. Now, I’m through with the story telling.”

That was enough for one day. Sherlock was completely spent and had not the patience to deal with John and his sentimental ways today. What did he think would be gained by drawing out his past and his pain? It would accomplish nothing but bring temporary emotional pain, but I would resolve nothing. He would bury the pain again and up would go the wall he put between himself and the world. Life would resume normal broadcasting, and this whole unnerving experience would be naught but a memory. Not even that. There was no room in his mind for such an experience, so out it would go. He laid himself back down and resumed the position of back turned to John, curled up in a ball. He was sweating from the heat, coat still wrapped around his body, and with the heat of the fire, it was unbearable to wear. But he didn’t have the care to remove it, despite how physical sick he was starting to feel.

John stepped away from Sherlock and walked to the window, cup of tea in hand. He took a sip, overlooking the street, mind a buzz with thoughts, concerns, confusion. There was no easy remedy to this, if indeed there was any sort of remedy. If Sherlock didn’t want help, then no amount of help offered would be any use. It would be a wasted effort. But John couldn’t stand idly by and watch this man destroy himself. There had to be SOMETHING…

“You do realize if you don’t face this, you very well might not be able to solve crimes, even under your own desire? Sherlock you…you are ill. Very ill, and you have been for a long time, and you need HELP!”

“John, I’m far passed help…”

Sherlock sounded defeated, and hopeless. Did he really believe he was beyond help? It was likely a mix of feeling beyond help, and feeling like there was no help out there. His lack of trust in people would be a great obstacle on his road to recovery, but maybe, just maybe…

“Listen to me.”

John walked back over and took a kneeling position beside Sherlock once more, gentle hand on his back. Sherlock flinched, but didn’t make to move away.

“It’s not too late for help. You’re NOT beyond help. I’m not going to call the hospital on you. I’m not going to get anyone involved you don’t want involved. But I AM going to do what I can to help you. But you need to be honest with me, you need to be open with me, and you have GOT to trust me…”

Trust. Trust was something that was to be EARNED not given. Yet John wanted trust. Did he deserve Sherlock’s trust? Did he really? Oh but wouldn’t it just be so easy to finally just give in to someone, just for once? Give in and finally just let someone help him with his burdens, let someone guide him through this haze of life. Because Sherlock couldn’t see through his own eyes at times, and another set of eyes would keep him from running into so many walls. And so, Sherlock gave in.

He turned to John, his expression pained, tears tracking down his pale face. But he didn’t vocally cry. Didn’t sob. And maybe that made the pained tears all the more haunting. The fact that he didn’t cry loudly, but rather silently. The same way in which he suffered for all these years. John reached down and wiped the tears away with his thumb, a sad smile on his face before he offered the cup of tea he had prepared a while ago to Sherlock. The detective eyed it for a moment before taking it into his hands to sip gingerly at it, in hopes it would ease the frayed edges of his mind, if only a little bit.

“I’m not saying this is going to be easy, and I’m not saying there will ever be a permanent fix to this. But there are ways of coping and ways of making things better. And I want to help make things better for you.”

Because god knows Sherlock deserved it. For once, the man deserved to have things go well and go in his way. And John would do EVERYTHING in his power to make sure that happened. Sherlock pulled John out of the abyss in his time of need, albeit unintentionally, and now John was going to return the favor. He helped Sherlock out of his scarf and coat, bringing a blanket over to wrap him up in, and after he had finished his tea, he curled up on his side and fell back into an exhausted, deep sleep. John sighed, stroking his hand through Sherlock’s soft curls, finding at least some small victory was made today, and for that he had to be thankful.

“Things WILL be better from here on out…just you see…”

He would make sure of that.

**Author's Note:**

> Part two of this series that honestlyyyy has no intended end. I mean it could end up being an on-going thing, I don't know. I have no SET number of parts to this so...yeah...  
> Kinda got the idea of the case from Saw. Fucking bad ass movie and I'm considering making the case sets for this series fully inspired from Saw and the psychopath Jigsaw. We'll see. not sure how in depth I'm really going to get with the cases in my fics.  
> Again, constructive criticism is appreciated, and I hope that you all enjoy!


End file.
